The Beginning of Goodbye
by You'llRememberMe
Summary: A profiler walks into a bar, intent on drowning his sorrows in alcohol, and sees someone there that he didn't expect.  A post "Lauren" oneshot about a team member dealing with Prentiss's "death".  Pretty angst-y in my opinion.


**_A/N: I've had this idea for a long time now, and it just begged me to be written. It's not as emotional as my other stories of this variety, but I'm satisfied with how it turned out._**

**_This won't be my last story like this. Not by a long shot. I still need to vent. It's been like, what? Two weeks since Lauren? And I'm still obsessing. Silly me ;)_**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Criminal Minds, but at this point I think anybody other than CBS would be a more responsible/better owner. C'mon CBS! Get your act together!**

**ENJOY!**

_**OOOOOOoooooOOOOOO**_

The profiler walked into the bar, his usual confidence gone from his stride. He quickly shuffled over to the bar, his head faced forward the entire time, but he didn't see anyone. He only saw the bartender as he ordered a beer. Usually he'd be a bit more specific, get something a little more interesting, but these past few days had been anything but usual.

He sat on a stool and waited. There was nothing else to do. On a _normal_ day after a _normal_ case, or as normal as a case gets, he might occupy himself by profiling the other bar patrons. Not today. He hadn't been able to bring himself to profile anybody since _it _happened.

He shook his head violently, he wouldn't go there. He wouldn't delve into the pain of the previous days. Nothing could be changed, so it was useless to dwell on it. No matter how much he might want things to change he knew it was pointless to think about it; the memories only brought a fresh dose of pain.

Then the bartender brought over his drink. He practically lunged for it, mumbling thanks only as an afterthought. He was so desperate for an emotional, or mental, escape. Alcohol, and lots of it, seemed like the only practical solution at this point. That was odd though, considering after a moment that alcohol was a depressant. He _really _didn't need to be any more depressed than he was already, but he also _really _needed a beer.

He chugged it, not caring what people might think, and when he finished he called to the bartender for another. When he wanted to go home he'd call a cab, and because of that one caution he felt like he could drink all he wanted tonight. After all, he could certainly afford to spend truckloads of money anywhere he wanted.

Just as the bartender brought over his second drink, a voice came from behind him, "It's on me."

The agent turned to see an old friend. He didn't bother with a smile. Sure, he'd called the other man here, but that didn't mean he had to be friendly. His old friend would certainly understand given the circumstances and all.

The man gave him a half-smile, "Hello, David."

"Jason," David Rossi grunted in response to the ex-FBI agent.

Gideon took the empty stool to Rossi's left and laid some money on the table even though he didn't even know how much it might cost. "How did you find me?"

Rossi's dead gaze met Gideon's inquisitive one, "It wasn't hard. I've known you for years, after all. You're not as spontaneous as you think, Jason."

This made the other half of the former agent's mouth match the other, forming a complete, if not small, smile. "You didn't answer my question."

Rossi sighed, looking down at his drink. "Once I narrowed down the state you were in, with Garcia's help even though she didn't have a clue what she was looking for, it was easy to find you." He recalled that Gideon had been living in Alabama for the past month. "I have a contact at a field office in Montgomery. I called him and asked him to keep an eye on people consulting on serial murders."

Gideon raised his eyebrows in question. That was a little too convenient for his taste. Rossi didn't need any further prompting, he glanced at his old colleague and added, "That, and I called your son."

That made Gideon laugh. Suddenly Rossi was envious of his ability to be so light-hearted in light of recent events, and then he remembered that Gideon didn't _know _about the events that had taken place so recently. Soon Rossi found himself studying the man he used to know. His face wasn't so plagued by the darkness they saw, or in his case _used to _see, and his eyes had a new light in them. He had gained a joy that Rossi didn't possess anymore. He wondered if he could ever undergo a transformation like Gideon had. Or would he forever be haunted by the memories of his job? Haunted by the memories of _her._

"So why am I here, Dave?" He sounded genuinely curious. Rossi found it hard to believe that he really didn't know. The man had made so many contacts over the years it was inconceivable to think that not one of them had told him anything. Then he remembered that Gideon had severed all ties with anyone that had anything to do with his old life. That is, everyone except his son, whom he'd obviously tried to reconnect with.

"I needed to tell you something," Rossi's throat tightened, this was something he definitely didn't want to talk about. It was too personal, too fresh. It was like picking off a scab that had just healed over.

"What?" Gideon leaned forward, a hard look in his eyes. He'd caught the change in Rossi's voice. Obviously his profiling skills hadn't left him in the years that he'd been AWOL.

"It's about Prentiss," Rossi said somewhat evasively, but managing not to avert his eyes. He'd forgotten how hard it was to tell someone bad news like this. It was different when you were on the job talking about and to people you didn't know. Now, it was so much harder, so much more painful. Now he knew what cops that were a victim's family's friend felt like. He understood now that it was like slowly stabbing yourself without actually killing yourself. It was torturous.

Gideon didn't need to say anything; the look in his brown eyes was enough. Rossi closed his eyes for a brief second, and surprisingly, he felt a tear trickle down his face.

He took a sharp breath and opened his eyes, "She's dead."

Shock passed over Gideon's face, but it was quickly replaced by determination. "How?" He asked.

Rossi looked away, "She was killed by criminal, a European terrorist, that she'd helped to put away during her time with Interpol. He," here Rossi had to pause. "He stabbed her. With a sharp piece of wood right through her stomach." The detailed report Morgan had given them while they drove like bats out of hell to the hospital was painfully fresh in his mind. More than that, it was branded there.

Gideon rubbed his hands over his suddenly tired face, "Was it quick?" Rossi shook his head sadly in response and Jason grimaced. It seemed that his years away had softened him up a bit.

"We could've saved her." Rossi stated as another tear slide slowly down his cheek. He didn't usually cry, but frankly, he wouldn't call two tears "crying".

The former profiler looked up and Rossi could see that in a few short moments, everything that Gideon had seen in life had caught up to him. The years he'd spent with the FBI had taken their toll, etching themselves into the lines on his face. Rossi suspected that his face looked much the same, if not worse.

Gideon didn't argue his old friend's point. These were thoughts that he still harbored about the six agents he'd lost oh-so long ago. Usually, these kinds of thoughts were actually right, but that didn't mean it was healthy to think them.

"If I hadn't let Fahey smoke up on the roof he wouldn't have been shot," Rossi was lost in his own thoughts now. To him, the bar, Gideon and the other patrons were all gone. "Hell, he could've smoked inside if he had to. We could've gotten the information earlier, and more of it. We could've found Doyle sooner. We could've saved her," he finished mournfully, his voice hoarse. He took a swig of his drink.

Gideon put a hand on his shoulder, "It's done now. There's no point in tormenting yourself over it." Rossi nodded once, he'd already thought about that, not that it made a difference.

"You have to let it go," he added.

"I know." Rossi blinked his eyes furiously, refusing to give in to the temptation of letting his inner feelings show.

"The first goodbye is always the hardest," Gideon said thoughtfully.

"It's not only the first goodbye." Rossi told him, "It's just the beginning of goodbye. It's not over yet, not by a long shot." Then he added, "He's still out there, too. We couldn't even catch the bastard." Rossi didn't really need to explain who "he" was. Gideon wasn't stupid, he already knew. Though he didn't know the name of the person who'd killed his former colleague.

"You'll catch him." It was simply a statement. Gideon had a feeling that his old team wouldn't let this go. There was no chance in hell that they'd let someone else handle the capture of Emily's killer.

"I know," Rossi finished. It may take decades, but Rossi wouldn't _allow _himself to die before they caught him. He, and the rest of the team, wanted revenge. They wouldn't rest until Ian Doyle was dead. Finishing off his beer, he thought that Doyle better watch his back, because the BAU was out for blood.

_**OOOOOOoooooOOOOOO**_

**REVIEW PLEASE!**

_**I'm not as familiar with Gideon as I am the others, but he was necessary for the story. I hope I did okay *fingers crossed***_

_**I've got another story in the works by the way! It's called "Life After You".**_

_**PS: I don't know about you guys, but since Prentiss was my favorite character, I'm not sure I'll be watching CM anymore. I might watch, but it'll only be out of curiosity to see how the rest of the team deals. I'll probably keep up with the show while skipping out on the actual episodes.**_

_**Is it mean to hope that Paget's comedy flops this fall?**_


End file.
